


The Scorpion and the Frog

by Bogglocity



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst, Gen, Post-Canon, past pharoga if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 11:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16786273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bogglocity/pseuds/Bogglocity
Summary: The Daroga is left to wonder on promises and the nature of some men to break them. One-shot





	The Scorpion and the Frog

It was too much to expect, in the end. Of all the things that the great wraith of a man could do, this was always his stumbling block, this was the note that would fall flat, the chord that would break, the string that would eventually snap for being drawn too tight. This was the one skill that was impossible for that expert mind to master. Nadir has blamed himself more times than he can count for the disappointment he is faced in the inevitable failure. He always let himself become too confident, after all—it felt so deceptively simple on his tongue, when he spoke the request.

“All I ask is that you stay out of trouble.”

And the response always so deceptively earnest when spoken in that golden voice.

“I have always stayed out of trouble, Daroga.”

How many times would he hear those words, over their shared years? Always the same, and always believed. _This time, this time he was tired, this time he was repentant, this time he was honest, this time, this time, this time_ , the refrain a chipping chisel against his heart with every repetition, but still he believed even as he didn’t believe a word.

The alternatives were always more painful, somehow.

His hand still hurts with the weight of the pistol in his hand. He hasn’t held it in a year. Lost it during…

Just as well, the sight of it would only make him reel for the reality of the resolutions he had made with it. He flexes his hand, stares into the distance that the curtain above his writing desk blocks from his view. What time is it? As if hearing his thoughts, the clock in the sitting room strikes eleven, and he closes his eyes.

“You promised me, Erik.”

He doesn’t know if the words are an echo or if he’s spoken them aloud, but the darkness teases at a chuckle that doesn’t exist, the dying candle at the sight of amber eyes that aren’t there glittering with the joy of a cat being caught pawing at the canary cage.

“I have always stayed out of trouble, Daroga.”

The truth, really. Always out of trouble, master of evasion. Never a lie, but Nadir tightens his hand, softly raps his knuckles on the top of the desk just once to jostle him out of the thought. Infectious and entangling, the way the man could sow his reasonings into his head, like ivy tendrils snaking into the tiniest spaces between windowpane and sill. _Always_ a lie, but a beautifully-spoken one. The problem with ivy is that it looks particularly handsome until it is almost too far gone.

Too far gone. Far too far gone. The fisted hand flattens, drifts unconscious to the side, down to where the desk drawers lay flush. He pauses at the second as he always does, rests there as if to feel a heartbeat. Silent and still, as it always is. But as he never, never does, he slides it open with the scrape of wood to wood. As he never, never does, he reaches in, eyes still closed tight, until he feels the shape of a brow, the bridge of a nose, a cheekbone in stiff, formed cloth.

They made sense, the ‘why’s. He could trace with his eyes all the ‘why’s, even if they stayed hidden behind fabric and words. How easy it was to adopt them as his own. One reason for being, for doing, became one reason for allowing, the eaves on which the ivy could grip, the hammer still tick-ticking away on the chisel one little mote at a time. The debate of nature and nurture and flagrant, unapologetic intent faded so very quickly at the sight of a grown man flinching at a too-long stare.

He lifts the mask and it feels ten, twenty times the weight of the pistol, shakes the desk with the gravity of it as he lays it on its surface, his hand beside. The stare of it sears into him, even with his eyes closed, and so he opens them to match the gaze, but finds only dark, empty sockets where pinpricks of light had once glowed.

Justifications. Reasons. Lies. Sculpted to perfection, a deception so blatant that it is the least offensive of them all, even dragged limping and bruised as it was to the very bitter end. Whimpering, begging for a little overlook, _don’t look, Daroga_ , ignoble, and even after all of it, he gave the concession, let that final flickering fiction die on the terms of the fabricator until it was over.

“I have always stayed out of trouble, Daroga.”

His eyes sting, thumb edging along a false cheek.

“You promised me, Erik.” Spoken aloud.

It was too much to expect, in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the fable of the same name!


End file.
